


Only When Forced

by Imogen74



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Molly is helping him, Sherlock has coronavirus, TFP takes places RIGHT before the lockdown, after the final problem, lockdown story, they have a much needed talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imogen74/pseuds/Imogen74
Summary: So, I felt like I needed a Sherlock lockdown fic. And I always love stories that involve him groveling to Molly. Suspension of disbelief disclaimer: The Final Problem actually happened in March of 2020, right before lockdown.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 16
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

Sunday, March 22, 2020  
He wasn’t feeling well.  
Though considering the time he had had of things the past few days, it really shouldn’t be surprising. 

But Sherlock Holmes was rarely ill, so this was off putting. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the news of late. There was the business of Euros, of Mycroft, Mary, John…all of these things were pressing in their own right. He supposed that he had simply run himself ragged. 

Sherlock laid on the sofa in the basement flat of 221B, since his own had been destroyed, staring at the ceiling. Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to furnish it while he stayed with John for a few nights. 

There was a thing…a thing that was bothering him, aside from the cough and the headache that was forming.  
This thing was persistent, and demanded his attention, but his head ached with such acuity that he could not really turn his mind to it.  
He knew vaguely what it was. He knew, in his heart, that he needed to speak with Molly Hooper. But there was just no way he could at the moment. And texting seemed to be a paltry effort. 

“Hoo hoo! Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson opened the door. 

“Hm…” he groaned, fearful of coughing. 

“Oh Sherlock, you are a right mess, aren’t you? And it is rather cold in here, isn’t it?” she went around securing the small windows, gathering up some things…”I’ll have the bed here in an hour, all right?”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly. Bit of a cock up, really. He should not be lying here idle. Exercise was what he needed. He swung his legs down and rubbed his face. He longed for a warm bath…some soup…how irritating that he should be sick! Sherlock swung his coat on and shoved his hands in his pockets. His phone was within his reach, and he left the flat. 

He honestly didn’t know where he was going, but he needed out. He needed fresh air after the stagnancy of the basement. He walked, occasionally taking note of the people he passed by. 

Everyone was in a bit of an odd state. There was frantic looks on people…they were skirting about the sidewalk…

What was going on? Was there a threat he didn’t know about? Surely Mycroft would have alerted him to any terrorist plot…  
He stopped at a newsstand. It was the 22nd of March, which he vaguely was aware of. The Times’ headline read:  
NHS Facing an Italian-Style Crisis if Lockdown is not Implemented

What? Sherlock picked up the newspaper. 

“Buying that, are ya?” the clerk at the stand asked.  
He nodded, then took out some money from his pockets. 

What was happening…? He opened the Times and read…  
Global Pandemic  
Coronavirus  
Thousands Projected to Die

Jesus. That must be what he has…He looked around. 

He was tainted. He could get Mrs Hudson ill. Might’ve done already. John, Rosie…they were all compromised. “Good god what have I done.”

Sherlock began to panic. He couldn’t stay at Baker Street. He’d need to stay someplace else. But where…? 

He took his phone out and scrolled down the list of about seven contacts.  
Mycroft.  
Mummy.  
Mrs Hudson.  
John.  
Billy.  
Lestrade.  
Molly.

Everyone but Billy was out of the question. But he was a junkie, and in his current state he didn’t really need that temptation.  
Lestrade…he could see if Greg could put him up. He texted him, and then considered Molly. But honestly he would rather take money from Mycroft for a hotel, after what he had done to her.

His phone rang out with a receipt. 

Sorry mate, but I’ve got a live-in girlfriend now, and she’s got a kid. There’s no room here, especially if you’re sick. Keep me posted on how you’re feeling. -GL

“Damn,” he hissed, and walked over to a park bench. He started to text Mycroft.  
I think I’ve got this virus. Can you set me up in a hotel? 

His phone rang, and Sherlock’s eyes rolled. “Yes?”

“You’re ill?” Mycroft held a hint of concern.

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. You’ll need to tell John. Mrs Hudson…”

“Yes I know. But I need a place to stay, Mycroft,” he interrupted. “Can you accommodate me?”

“Between you and me, Sherlock, everything will be closed starting tomorrow save food and emergency services. There is no place to put you…” there was a pause. “You could stay here, if you like.”

“With you.”

“Yes, Sherlock, with me.”

He laughed a touch. “Honestly, I don’t think that’s wise unless I am truly stuck.”

“Where will you go then?”

“I have one more option…” he sighed, then swallowed. “I’ll let you know.” He really, really did not want to ask her. But he had no other choice…well. There was Mycroft’s offer. He supposed if Molly was completely disgusted by the idea, he’d stay with him.

But Mycroft’s overall health was a concern. He wasn’t sure just where his brother was in that area. And he was loath to ask.

Molly, he was sure, was in relatively good health. He seemed to remember something about a thyroid issue. Or was it blood pressure? He couldn’t recall. Well, if she had co-morbidities that rendered her unable to accommodate him, he’d just go to Mycroft. 

Or if she despised him, which was more than likely. 

He stood, feeling dizzy, and prayed that she was at Bart’s and he could just ask her there. He didn’t fancy texting her…he was sure she’d ignore it. 

Sherlock walked to Bart’s, uneasy about taking a cab. And the further he went, the worse he felt. He was nauseous, his head was pounding, and his breath was coming up short. He didn’t want to get Molly ill…that would be the worst thing that could happen now, after everything else. 

He made it to Bart’s and called her. He never called…except that one time, last week…and he thought that maybe she wouldn’t answer. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said stiffly.

“Molly…I …need to speak with you. But I need to know if you’re at work.”

“You need to speak with me, hm? Now? It’s been days and…”

“Yes I know,” he interjected. “Yes. I have a lot of explaining to do. But tell me, are you at work?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” he said softly. “I’m right outside. Out front. Please make sure that you are wearing a mask, shield, gloves…all of your PPE. Ok?”

There was a short pause. “Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Can you meet me out here?”

“Be there in a mo,” and she was gone. 

He sighed and sat on the curb, opening the paper again. This was bad. Thousands of new cases everyday…China had been ravaged. Italy was catching up…  
He hoped that Molly would allow this. After all, she was a medical professional. She was likely able to help him recover and keep herself safe in ways that no one else he knew could.  
Except John.  
But again, John was not an option.

“Sherlock?” He turned to face her, and he watched as her eyes went wide. “Oh my god,” she said, sitting next to him.

He couldn’t really see her face, as it was obstructed by the mask. “Hello, Molly.”

“You’re sick,” she said. “I …need to take your temperature,” and she took out a thermometer, and placed it on his forehead. There was a sharp intake of breath. “102.3,” she said. “What the hell are you doing out and about?”

“I needed to leave Baker Street because of Mrs Hudson…and John has Rosie…and Lestrade has a girlfriend with a child…and Billy is a junkie…” he coughed violently into his elbow…”And Mycroft is Mycroft.”

“I see,” she said. “So, you want to stay at Bart’s?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since you abused me so horrifically, I can only imagine that you’re here for a hospital bed.”

“Molly, I …I know that I was awful…but there is an explanation for that. I suppose I should have come to you straight away, but I was suddenly struck with illness, and now I am relatively sure that it’s this coronavirus…”

She sighed heavily. “You want to stay at mine.”

“Well, you have that smallish office right by the bathroom. I could just kip in there…” he shrugged. 

“You want me to take care of you while there’s a public health emergency and you exploited me in the most horrifying way possible,” she said with some defiance.

“No! You don’t need to take care of me…I’ll just sleep there until I’m well. Besides, I don’t want you to get ill.”

“Wear this,” she said, rolling her eyes, and handed him a mask. 

He put it on, and turned to look at her. “Well?”

“I hate you,” she said, then stood, and took her phone out. “Mike? It’s Molly. Sherlock is here and I’m certain he has the virus. …No…No…he’s outside. But he can’t stay at Baker Street because of Mrs Hudson, so I’m wondering if I could take him back to my flat and set him up…I could probably be back in two hours… Are you sure? You know what’s coming tomorrow…that’s true. Oh really? Oh, thanks Mike…cheers,” and she hung up. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” and she left him there.

He wondered what he had ever done to deserve such a person in his life.

*`*

“We’re walking,” she said. “Can you make it?”

He nodded. “What did Mike say?”

“Oh, loads. He gave me the next few days off to take care of you and a few more to quarantine myself. He said that the morgue won’t be busy for a couple of weeks anyway,” she added softly. 

“That’s very generous,” and he coughed, turning his head away from Molly. “Thank you for doing this, Molly.”

“Mm,” she replied. Her mask was still on, but she had changed her clothes and things. “I took some masks from the lab…can’t wear the N-95 outside,” she explained. “I mean, I could, but if I lost it…well. Let’s just say I can’t lose it.”

They walked along, Sherlock feeling the illness wrap around him, and desperate to lie down. He felt the tension coming from her, but couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. Partly because he didn’t want to get thrown into a coughing fit again. 

The flat wasn’t terribly far, but far enough for Sherlock in his state. They walked down the steps, and Molly opened the door. 

He nearly fell over, he was so tired. 

“All right, why don’t we get you in bed?” and she helped him with his coat. He followed her, not knowing or caring where he was going. He sat on a soft surface as she indicated, and felt her take his shoes off. “I’m going to the store to get some provisions…I’m guessing I’ll be awhile, since word has gotten out about the lockdown. Just…try to sleep, hm?”

He listened as she left him there, and slipped under sleep’s spell.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was walking to Tesco in a bit of a haze. She wanted to help Sherlock, of course she did. But she was so incredibly sick over everything that had happened that she honestly didn’t know if she had it in her to nurse him while he was in his sick bed.

The streets were abuzz, but oddly deserted. There was an electricity in the air that was foreboding in its feel. Heavy, wrought…dark. She shivered. 

Tesco was packed fit to burst. She put her mask on, pulled the gloves up, and went inside. She figured she would need things for at least a week, but made her way to the pain and fever reducers first before they ran out.

*`*

Molly was carrying several bags…the most she believed she’d ever had…back to her flat. She was tired. She spent almost two hours at Tesco, and she couldn’t believe that she made it out alive.   
She took note to look into delivery services for next time. 

At least she had no stairs to climb with all of her parcels.

She tumbled inside her flat and began to unpack:  
Soup  
Tea  
Ice Lollys  
Ibuprofen  
Lemons  
…and various things for her to cook and bake while waiting for Sherlock to get better. 

She had some things in her medicine cabinet, so she went in there to check on the dates and such of her medicine. She had an old tub of Vick’s Sav…she opened it and sniffed. It seemed all right.

Molly boiled water in the kettle and set out to look for the humidifier her mum had gotten her ages ago.

She thought about the sleeping man in her bedroom (of course she wasn’t about to let him just hang out, sick as hell, in her tiny office), and she wondered how much she hated him.

Because she did. She hated him.

Because she loved him to death.

Molly closed her eyes. She did love him, and that’s why he hurt her so much, and so often. A tiny tear escaped her eye and she angrily brushed it aside. “Where the hell did I put that thing?” she hissed, rummaging through her closet. 

At last she found it, tucked away at the back of her hallway closet. Molly pulled it out and went to tend to the kettle. She filled the humidifier and got a tray prepared, sighing. She looked over at her bedroom door, and shook her head.   
Always. He always had her at his beck and call. 

Molly picked up the tray and walked over to the door, opening it. 

The room was pitch…she set the tray down and turned on a lamp.

Sherlock groaned, then began to cough. 

“Hey,” Molly said, going over to him and feeling his forehead. “You’re burning up.” 

“Yes,” he grunted. “Molly? Where am I?”

“My bedroom.”

“Oh…” he didn’t seem to understand. 

Molly took some ibuprofen and a bottle of water to him. She supposed she should be wearing a mask, but then assumed she was already compromised. And she didn’t really fancy wearing one in her own bedroom. 

At least, not a surgical mask. She grinned. “Here Sherlock, take these.”

He reached for her proffered hand, but couldn’t quite manage. 

“Oh for god’s sake,” she said, taking his hand and putting the pills inside. “Go on now,” she crossed her arms.

He looked up at her, eyes squinting, and tried to sit up. 

She watched as he struggled, and it gave her some sort of sadistic satisfaction to watch him thusly. 

Finally, he did. He took them, drank all of the water, and slumped back in her bed. 

“Good,” said Molly, smiling. “Now, I brought you some tea…and some toast. And I’ll set up the humidifier in a minute…are your coughs at all productive?”

“No,” he gasped, after coughing again.

“And do you feel nauseous?”

He nodded.

“Ok,” she went to the desk and picked up a remote control. “I want you to eat that,” she said, pointing. “Find something on the telly,” she handed the remote to him. 

He didn’t answer. 

Molly went to retrieve the humidifier and a bucket, as well as the Salve. She hesitated for a moment…she would need to rub it on his chest. She blushed slightly, then shrugged. 

Before long she had the room all set up. She was going through the closet while he ate his toast and drank his tea. “I just know that Tom left things here…” she put her hands on her hips. “Maybe the dresser…” she said to herself. And she found them…a t shirt that said “I’m a virgin (this is an old shirt)” and some pajama pants. She giggled. Tom had a really stupid sense of humor. “Now, Sherlock, we need to get you changed into comfortable clothes. I really can’t believe that you’re wearing those things…” she pointed at his button down shirt. “You must be feeling dreadful in them…” she went over and took the tray with the mostly eaten toast and finished tea. “Luckily you and Tom are about the same size,” she uncovered him and put the clothes next to him on the bed.

“Are those Tom’s clothes?”

“Yep,” she smiled. “Do you need help with them?”

“I …” he looked at them sitting there. “No, I’ll manage,” he said softly. It looked like it cost him a great deal to admit this. 

She nodded. “I’ll just go over here while you fix yourself up.”

“You don’t need to…” but he started to cough violently again.

“Oh hush,” she went over and pulled his legs out. She knelt before him and unbuttoned his shirt, ignoring the blush she felt. Molly reached for the Salve…”I’ll put this on while I’m here,” she said, and scooped some out. There was a hesitation before she touched him…but then she reminded herself that she hated him, and that he was quite ill. But that didn’t mean she could look at him at all while she applied the stuff. She pulled the shirt off, then the t shirt went over his head. “Better already,” she nodded. 

Sherlock stood unsteadily to change his own pants, and then fell into bed again. 

Molly situated the bucket closer, then turned the humidifier up, and looked at the telly. “Did you find anything?”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to stay, Molly,” he heaved. It looked like it took a great deal out of him to speak.

“Well, I’ve been reading reports from Italy, and they say that the first few days are miserable. Most people seem to be all right after that, but if you don’t improve at all by say, Wednesday, we’ll have to take you to Bart’s,” she nodded. 

He looked at her now, with some look of comprehension. “Where the hell is your mask? Your gloves?” he tried to sit up.

“Stop it Sherlock,” she went to him and pressed his chest to lay back down. “You need to rest. Maybe you’ll be better in the morning. Like any illness, it’s different for everyone,” she smiled. “When did you start feeling ill?” she sat next to him at her desk chair.

“Couple of days ago.”

She sat back. It was going to be a long night…

*`*

Molly watched all sorts of things on Netflix. And she bought an HBO subscription. It was likely that she would be feeling ill by the end of the week, so might as well splurge on entertainment. Sherlock vomited twice over the course of the night, coughed fairly regularly. The ibuprofen helped his fever, so he was able to sleep. 

And the morning brought with it the news of the lockdown. She counted herself lucky that she was able to get the things she did at the store when she did. She assumed things would be devolving quickly as panic set in.

“Molly?” 

She got up from the seat at her desk. “Hi,” she smiled slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Dreadful.”

She nodded. “More ibuprofen…” and she fetched it and some water. “Well, you look pretty bad,” and she felt his forehead. 

Definitely a fever. 

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Mm…well, I’m assuming that you’ve infected me, so you’ll need to stay here and nurse me when I fall ill,” and she pulled the chair over next to him. 

He nodded. “We need to talk.”

Her back went straight, and she paled. “What of?”

Sherlock swallowed, then looked at her. “The phone call.”

“Yes. But not now. Not if you expect me to help you…because I don’t know if I can if we talk about it.”

“I know that you’re angry…”

“Honestly, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

A thin breath escaped his lips. “Well, when can we talk about it?”

“I dunno, Sherlock. When there’s not a global pandemic? I mean, it’s not as though you care…”

“That,” he said severely. “Is not true.”

She looked at her hands, then scratched her nose. Molly nodded. “Well, let’s wait until you can speak without a coughing fit, hm?”

He turned away from her and laid on his side. 

“You had better not be pouting.”

There was a smile in his voice when he said, “Well, it’s not as though you care.”

“Oh come on, Sherlock. You do not get to behave that way.”

“No,” and he sat back up. “I don’t suppose that I do. But it doesn’t feel right to lay here in your bed while you’re angry with me.”

“You can leave, you know. Just come back to take care of me when I get sick.”

He smirked a bit. “I want to explain…”

“Explain. What’s to explain? You did what you always do, and so did I.”

He sighed, then nodded. “But I had a very good reason this time.”

“As did I,” and Molly stood. “I’ll make tea,” and she left the room.

She went into the kitchen and started her tea routine, and was reminded of that day, last week…the day he was talking about. The day she would much rather forget altogether:

Work had been utter shit. She had gotten into an argument with an intern, and then Mike was pissed that she did. She was hating her basement job, her basement flat, her life altogether. She felt alone and as though it didn’t matter if she lived or not. Her life had become such a drudge of days in and days out at the morgue…and her attempts at righting any of it was always met with a brick wall. Her family were gone…her only brother had two kids she never saw save over Christmas…and she had left her fiancé over a man who would never return her feelings. In fact, the evening previous she saw Tom at a pub, and it looked like he had a new girlfriend. She supposed that was why her day had been peppered with awfulness. She was soured at his moving on, while she remained steadfastly stuck. Just as stuck as she was when she had met him.   
And all of this had happened, and she was sad. And angry. And helpless.   
And then he called her. And made her say that thing…that thing which was always there in her mind, in her soul…for five years Molly held onto this unattainable thing, this thing she never admitted to, nor did she ever deny it. It was there, it lived inside of her.  
And she had told herself that she’d be able to get over it. That sooner or later the fantasy would crumble under the weight of a reality that never could include that nameless someone. But it didn’t. It didn’t…it got worse, if anything.   
And that day, as she was making tea, she thought that she should either come clean to this man or else give him up forever. It was a dream, of course, because she couldn’t reasonably do either one. He was like a drug to her, as much as he was a real friend.  
Except, after her world came shattering down around her, when she pushed the “End” button and dropped her phone…when she sank to the floor of her kitchen, after hearing him tell her that he loved her, but knowing it would never be real, she realized that she had, in fact, done it. And she didn’t know if she was mad at him, at herself, at Tom for not being him, or at life for dealing her such a shit hand.   
But it was done, and couldn’t be undone.   
That was something that she knew, and it killed her.  
She took the next day off, and when she returned, she was determined to be a different person. To take what she wanted from life, because she felt as though she never got anything that she truly wanted.   
So when he showed up outside of Bart’s sick with a novel virus in the middle of a pandemic, she almost…almost…turned him away.  
But he was her drug, and so she couldn’t. As unhealthy as this relationship was, it was hers. And she had so very little. So perhaps she could mold it, she thought. Turn it into something that more resembled balance. 

And that’s where she was as she squeezed the lemon into mugs for them both. Molly brought the mugs into the bedroom and handed Sherlock his. 

He took it and sipped. 

“Is the ibuprofen working?”

He nodded. “I feel somewhat better.”

“Good.”

“Can we talk now?”

“No. I’ll let you know when I’m ready. It should be closer to when you’re much better. And before I get ill.”

He looked at her. “You might not, you know.”

“Oh Sherlock, I will. It’s the way things are for me. It’s my life.”

His glassy eyes examined hers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if something bad can happen to me, it will.”

He looked away, and into his cup.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s strange, when you’re ill, the things you think of. 

As in, he dreamt that he was on top of Bart’s again, only this time Molly was talking to him on the phone. And she was telling him to jump and get it over with.  
He woke, but was unsure where he was, but then heard the soft padding of her footfalls and remembered before dozing off again.   
He couldn’t smell anything as of yet, and that was disconcerting. He always relied heavily on every one of his senses.

But was quite adept at ignoring other vital parts. 

So he imagined that he could smell her perfume lingering as yet in her sheets. 

Sherlock listened as she came in with ibuprofen. He watched as she handed it to him. He thought that she was being much too kind. 

And when she was not in the room with him, he missed her. 

Sherlock had not truly considered what had happened over the phone call…he had gotten home from Sherrinford and began to feel ill relatively soon afterwards. He was so unaccustomed to being sick that he honestly did not know how to deal with it. And to prove his dismissive inattention, he felt dehydrated among other things. The illness set quickly in, so he had barely had time to react. 

The phone call, however, was in the back of his mind. Like wallpaper…immovable. Plastered there. He knew in his heart that he would need to face it. He knew, but it was so painful that he hardly wanted to think about it again. And he wasn’t certain if he wanted to talk about with her first, or else consider it in his own mind. 

And so, when she was not in the room with him, he tried to confront it. 

He recalled the sinking sensation when he realized just who Euros meant by the “I Love You” on the coffin lid. He knew that he was going to have to face Molly’s feelings for him. 

He couldn’t exactly say why this was uncomfortable for him. He knew she knew that her secret was not so secret. 

But it pained him to force her into something that she clearly did not want. Molly Hooper had only ever been kind, generous, and understanding to the point of absurdity where he was concerned. He had grown a bit toward her, he felt. His conversations with her had proved it…he wasn’t merely barking orders anymore. He spoke to her about his life, and listened when she (rarely) spoke of her own.

He had, he noted to himself, grown used to her being there. It was strange in ways that he couldn’t fully appreciate when she was engaged. He knew that her loyalty must lie with her fiancé, but he resented it. And therein laid his own room for growth. 

Or so he thought.

He had thought that she was something like a Lestrade in his life. Someone he cared about, but who was ultimately tethered to his work in his mind. She helped him with his work, just as Greg Lestrade did. 

However, she was much more like John. Euros saw that. She was more like a friend who happened to be someone who helped him with his work.  
And he realized the depth of his regard when he called her last week. Now, he certainly didn’t believe that he was in love with Molly Hooper, but he loved her as he loved any friend he ever had.

It bothered him somewhat that she resisted speaking about it so very much. But he would honor her request, because he could not do further damage to her. It would simply not do.

“Sherlock?”

He opened his eyes.

“Here…I made you some soup.”

“Thank you, Molly,” he sat up and took it from her. 

“How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Slightly better.”

“You should check your phone for headlines. It’s madness…” she went to retrieve it from his coat. 

…and he thought he needed to tell John and Mrs Hudson about his being ill. God he hoped that he hadn’t infected them. 

“Here…” Molly entered and handed it to him. 

Sherlock didn’t have news alerts on his phone, so he wasn’t inundated with notifications. His only text was from Mrs Hudson asking where he had gone to. 

'I’m at Molly’s. Have the coronavirus. Go get yourself checked and please let me know what the results are. Take care of yourself…I’ll likely be here for at least a week. -SH'

Then he texted John:

'At Molly’s for a week…have the coronavirus. Please check yourself and let me know the results. -SH'

His hand slumped onto the bed. 

“Well?”

“Hm? What?”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh…nothing,” he coughed for a bit. “Asking John and Mrs Hudson to have themselves checked.”

Molly nodded. “Well, shall we see what’s on telly? I purchased an HBO subscription,” she turned her chair to the television and put it on. 

“What’s HBO?”

“Home Box Office. It’s been around forever.”

“Never heard of it.”

She turned and smiled. “Ok…but do you like dragons?”

He cocked a brow.

*`*

Two hours later into Game of Thrones, Sherlock was equal parts mystified and revolted. “I don’t understand how this can be considered entertainment.”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“It’s…sordid. And unnecessary on so many levels. What’s more, they are all painfully transparent.”

“Who is?”

“All of the Starks. I mean, we all can see that this Jon Snow character is to be the ultimate hero, or whatever you wish to call him.” He watched as she rolled her eyes, and sniggered. “What?”

“Well, I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“I’m seldom wrong, Molly.”

Her eyes went wide. “Actually, I don’t think that’s true. And I think you might be done with the ibuprofen. Maybe let the fever burn a bit,” she smiled.

“That’s just cruel,” but he was smiling at her.

“No more than you deserve,” she said under her breath. 

He had heard that, but didn’t want to engage with her when she had made it clear that she wasn’t about to talk to him any time soon about the unspoken thing that hung like a veil between them. “How long until I’m better, do you think?”

“It’s different for everyone, Sherlock…but I dunno. A few days maybe?”

He nodded. A few days like this. “How long is this ‘Game of Thrones’?”

“It’s seven seasons. But it gets rather controversial at the end.”

“What? Characters that the masses don’t want to have sex do, or something?” he sardonically said.

“You are feeling better, aren’t you?” and she stood and took his tray. 

He shrugged, and noticed the way her v-neck tee shirt revealed a bit more than he was expecting. He blanched, swallowed, then looked away. Sherlock was unaccustomed to thoughts such as attraction, and certainly none where Molly was concerned. 

He paused.

That wasn’t entirely true, now that he considered it. 

She left, and he watched as she closed the door behind her. 

Molly had never struck him as someone whom he could be attracted to, sexually.   
He laid his head back…no. That’s not entirely true, either. When he had met Tom, he was jealous. Jealous of their relationship…that’s what he remembered. He recalled thinking that it was absolutely disgusting that that man would touch her intimately. 

Euros had said: “So many words unsaid, so many days not lived…” or some such thing. Did she believe that he was in love with Molly Hooper? 

Sherlock looked at the door. He looked at the tee shirt: I’m a Virgin (this is an old tee shirt) and felt ill. How irritating to be wearing that man’s clothes…clothes that he wore here, with Molly. And that that specific thing should be on the front of it.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got unsteadily to his feet. He opened the door and saw her stirring something in a pot on the stove. 

Euros thought he was in love with her.

And he destroyed the coffin in that cell. 

“Molly?”

“Sherlock! You shouldn’t be up!” she went over to him. 

“I needed out of that bed.”

“Oh…well…if it’s all the same, I’d like to contain the virus as much as possible…that’s why I’m sleeping in there…”

He hadn’t thought of that. 

“You know…less to clean,” she shrugged, smiling.

He nodded. “Sorry…” and he turned and went back inside the room. Many thoughts were racing inside of his mind…he had told Molly that he loved her. And he had said it to her two times…why? 

Sherlock sat and closed his eyes, ready to enter his mind palace…

“Well, it’s just soup from a tin tonight, maybe tomorrow we can do something from scratch, hm?”

He nodded vaguely. He desperately wanted to be alone just then, but how could he ask her to leave? 

And since when did he concern himself with niceties? He had no qualms before about asking Molly to leave her room for him. 

The virus, Euros, quarantine…they were culminating to some sort of head…he looked at Molly, who was watching him steadily. “You all right?”

He stared at her, face pale, eyes bloodshot…”No. No, I’m not ok…”

“Well, I mean, apart from having a novel virus,” she laughed. 

He looked away from her. “Molly…do you trust me?”

She sat across from him…he was sitting at the desk, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Do I trust you?”

He nodded, his gaze on his hands. 

“I …” she swallowed. She cleared her throat.

And he looked at her.

She managed a very weak smile. “Usually.”

And he wanted to scream…he had done this…he had made her, Molly Hooper…mistrustful of him. Tears threatened him, and he raised his fingers to his mouth as he looked at her.   
She had given him everything…everything and more…and no matter what he asked of her, she always said yes. 

“Sherlock?”

He sobbed out a laugh and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry…illness is making a fool of me.”

“Sherlock!” and she reached for him.

“No don’t…” he pulled away. “Viral load matters.”

“What’s happening? I’ve never really seen you this emotional.”

“Are you washing your hands regularly?”

She nodded. “Good,” and he wiped his cheeks, looking away. “I’m sure that it’s airborne, but like I said, the amount of the virus you imbibe will matter,” he glanced at her furtively. 

“Well…” Molly shook her head. “Ah…why don’t we watch another episode, hm?”

“If you like…” he swallowed and got into bed. Shame.  
That’s what he suddenly felt. He felt ashamed of himself. And like a dam that had been unstoppered by Euro’s experiment, his emotional self was being awakened through the haze of illness and fever. 

Shame…shame at what he was, what he had done to this person who had been so kind and more than generous to him. Shame for treating her so abhorrently…he was truly a terrible person. 

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to the program…he couldn’t. He couldn’t think about anything except how he had treated Molly. How he had always treated her…  
He glanced up at her watching the television…biting her nails, intent on the story.   
How could he? How could he have treated her so abominably all of these years? What was the catalyst for his maltreatment? 

He supposed part of it was the unwanted attention that she gave him, though he recalled having abused that, too. He slumped back, trying to recall their interactions over the years, and realizing with horror that her love for him had been something that he absolutely counted on. He had always just assumed that she would do whatever he asked of her because he knew that she loved him.   
Including that phone call.   
He shuddered. 

Well, he would need to repay her kindness…if she should fall ill, he would do whatever he could to make certain that she was well taken care of. 

“Are you watching?” she said from across the room.

His eyes snapped to hers. “Ah…” he swallowed. “No not really.”

“Do you want me to restart it?”

He smiled at her. “No…I’ll do that,” and he took the remote and restarted episode three, and his resolve as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly wasn’t exactly paying close attention to Game of Thrones, either. She was thinking about how odd Sherlock was acting. Surely it was the virus. 

Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to being sick. That was likely why he was behaving so oddly. She glanced over at him, as he appeared to be looking through the television.

She knew that he was placating her…he didn’t actually want to watch Game of Thrones. But she figured that if it was diverting enough for millions of people, it could hold Sherlock Holmes’s attention for a few hours.

She must have been wrong.

“We can turn this off if you’re bored,” she said. 

He looked at her. “Hm?”

Molly laughed. “I’ll turn it off,” and she reached for the remote.

“No…no it’s fine…I don’t mind,” he smiled slightly.

“Ok,” she replied in a soft voice. There was something amiss, she was sure of it. “Ah…I’ll make some tea…”

“What time is it?”

“About four…” she watched as he nodded, lost in whatever he was thinking of. “Sherlock?”

“What?” he cleared his throat. “I’m rather tired, Molly. Think I’ll skip the tea,” and he turned over and pulled the covers up.

She nodded to herself, then closed the door behind her. 

It bothered her somewhat that Sherlock was being, what it seemed to her, elusive. She knew that she wasn’t always the most forthcoming person, but she believed that he owed her this. She was making a lot of sacrifices to keep him there.

But, perhaps she was making connections where there wasn’t any. That was certainly possible. He was sick, after all. 

Yet Molly *knew* Sherlock Holmes. She figured she knew him better than anyone. Except perhaps Mycroft.   
John didn’t know him as well as he believed that he did. She chalked that up to John not knowing himself all that well. As well John understood things, he seldom turned that gaze upon himself. Molly even fancied for a bit that there was something romantic going on between the two of them. But then thought the better of it. 

What she understood about Sherlock was that he was afraid. Of what, she wasn’t certain…but she thought perhaps it had something to do with failure. She first thought that when he asked her to help him fake his death. Those things he said suggested that he wasn’t as clever as he believed he was, and was fearful of letting her down, all told her of an underlying fear, or an uncertainty in himself…something.

Or someone.

Perhaps she didn’t believe that she she was so important as to think that he didn’t want to let her down, because she had made it clear that he couldn’t. 

But something was nagging at her…the way he was behaving now, even in spite of his illness, made her believe that he was keeping something from her. Though in all honesty, she should not care. After all, she had sworn to hate him.

And she did.

Except she didn’t.

Molly sighed as she readied her tea. She turned on the news, and, forgetting about her idea about containing the virus in the bedroom, sat on the sofa. 

She sipped, watching as they talked about the virus, and the illness it caused, Covid19, ravaged Europe. It was in America now, too. Molly felt a bit lost as she watched, thinking that surely this all could have been prevented. Somehow. 

And somehow her relationship with Sherlock could have been prevented, too. If only she hadn’t let him into her lab …when was the first time? Eight, nine years ago? And she was mesmerized by his abilities. Captivated by how he spoke. Everything about him was different, and Molly believed that she had lived a relatively ordinary life, so it was intoxicating. 

She had enjoyed the attention he gave her. She wasn’t naive…she knew that he was using her for access. But she didn’t mind. Not really. At the time it was just a crush. 

She thought often about when it turned into something more…because it was the night that changed everything. The day he faked his death.

Sherlock had been hiding in Bart’s for about an hour after the event when she went to him. 

“Are you ok?” she asked.

“I just faked my suicide, Molly…” he looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “I’m pretty far from ok.”

“Right,” she laughed slightly, then swallowed. She was so different around him then. “Is Mycroft coming?”

“Shortly,” he nodded.

“Well,” she looked at her feet. “I guess I’ll just…” she looked at the door. 

“Wait,” he said softly, and stood from the stool he was sitting on, propped against the wall. He went over to her without looking at up at her, took her hands, then pulled her into a hug. 

And it was this, this rare showing of vulnerability, that Molly realized that she was in love with him. Not the hug exactly…though that was nice, too. It was proof to her that he was human enough to care. That he, too, was vulnerable and susceptible to human frailty. She had always believed that, but this was proof. And she held him close, and she knew that she could have been anyone, and he likely would have done the same thing.

Except it was her standing there…and he was holding her. 

Molly recalled sighing slightly and lamenting his presence when he finally pulled away.   
“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“What for?”

He looked at her. “Not sure.”

“Well, I’m not sorry,” she said with a soft smile. 

Sherlock nodded. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, Molly. But …I wanted to…”

“S’okay, Sherlock. I’ll see you when I see you,” and she pulled at her bag, smiled another smile, then left the lab.   
And she left with the knowledge that she loved him, and that he would likely never return her love. And that she had no idea when or if she would see him again. 

Molly sighed and sipped. She liked the way she had been able to control some of the interactions with him now. She felt like a different person in many ways. 

But she wasn’t altogether different. She still loved him. Even though he broke her heart last week. She thought about it for just a moment, because it remained rather painful to her, and she was sick of thinking about it. And she thought it was painful because she loved him, but it was more than that. It was because it signified to her that he couldn’t be in love with her, and it was just a fantasy that she had that he would.

Not that she necessarily believed that he would, but when your fantasy is squashed, it’s always a blow. 

Molly felt her anger well a bit. 

He had taken a lot from her over the years. He continued to now. But she always had that…that fantasy that she had…she would imagine herself coming home after a long day at work, and Sherlock would be there (sometimes he lived there, sometimes he didn’t), and he’d enthrall her with stories about his day…chasing murderers, turning thieves into Scotland Yard…and she would smile. And they’d have a laugh. 

But somehow that had been spoiled. Now, there was this thing that hung over her. This knowledge that hope was gone. 

Because if he had cared about her, that would not have happened. He would not have done it. She almost didn’t want to know why…because it kind of didn’t matter. 

She finished her tea and put it in the sink. It had been over a day now since he came to her. Any time now she would likely start to feel sick…

She sighed. “S’pose I’ll kip on the sofa,” she said, and she went to get a pillow and blanket. 

*`*

Molly watched telly from 6pm to 6am, barely sleeping. She wasn’t sure if she was being paranoid, or if the headache was related to getting sick. 

Of course, she had been up most of the night. So there was that. 

She rubbed her eyes and stood to make coffee. Molly thought that Sherlock had better make sure that he took very good care of her while she was ill. 

She smiled. She only half believed that he’d stay if she fell ill. 

The coffee maker beeped and she readied herself a cup. 

'"Black, two sugars," he had said to her as he walked away from her.' 

She swallowed. Well, maybe it’ll help him to have some caffeine. 

Molly opened the door slowly and walked in. He was awake, and texting on his phone…”Molly,” he looked at her. “Morning.”

“Well, you seem better,” she went over to him and handed him the cup. 

“I feel somewhat better,” he sipped. 

“Good,” and she sat on the desk chair. “What’s better?”

“Well,” and he set the cup down. “Less fatigued. Fever down. Headache…mm…still there. Sore throat remains. Cough much better,” he smiled a quick smile at her. 

She nodded. “Those are all good things.”

He didn’t respond, but kept his gaze fixed on her. “John’s test came back negative.”

“Oh! Good. That’s a relief.”

He nodded. “Still waiting for Mycroft and Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh…well…”

“You slept on the sofa.”

Molly canted her head. “I did, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” she smiled, shrugging. “Because you’re ill.”

His gaze fell. “Molly…”

“Hm?” she sipped her coffee.

“We should talk about the phone call last week.”

She coughed the coffee out of her mouth and onto the bedspread. Tears streaming, she tried to recover…”What?” she croaked out. 

He had gotten up and fetched some water for her. “Here,” he said, handing her the water, then sitting on the bed across from her. 

She gulped the water and then held the glass firmly on her lap. 

“Molly?”

She felt the heat rising in her face. She did not want him to dictate the conversation she was loath to have. “What.”

“We should really…”

“Shut up, Sherlock. We are not doing this now,” and she glared at him.

“Well, when do you suggest?”

“Not now. You are not going to have control over it, because I will let you know when we can…when I’m good and ready.”

He sighed. “Will you at least let me apologize?”

She furrowed her brow. “You know, I was about to never speak to you again before you showed up at Bart’s sick.”

He paled, which was something, since he was already pale from fever. “You were…”

“That’s right. I wasn’t going to speak to you again. You have hurt me, Sherlock, in ways I don’t think you understand,” her voice cracked. She swallowed…she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “And I don’t think you want to understand. Nor do I think you care much. You only care because I can give you things…and I always help you. And I guess I always will.”

He looked away from her. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I know, because you’ve never given me reason to believe otherwise.”

He nodded. “You’re right.”

“S…sorry?”

“You’re right,” and he looked at her, then stood. “I’ll go.”

“What?”

He started gathering up his things. He went and retrieved a grocery bag from her kitchen and shoved his clothes in it. “I’ll bring these things back when you’re ill.”

“When I’m ill? What do you mean?”

“Well, I promised that I’d take care of you if you fall ill, and I will. And then, if you like, I won’t ever bother you again,” he put his shoes on, which looked ridiculous with pajama pants.

“You can’t just go, Sherlock. You need to be quarantined.”

“I’ll go to Mycroft’s. His is big enough that we shouldn’t see one another,” and he stood. 

Now she stood. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You run the risk of exposing your brother, who needs to run the country.”

“What do you want, Molly?” he shouted, dropping the parcel to the floor.   
“I want you to stay, and I want you to wait until I am ready to talk about the thing that you did to me last week. That’s what I want. I want to define the terms, and you have to honor them.”

A long sigh escaped his mouth. He shook his head. 

“Is that really too much to ask?” she said softly.

“No,” he sat on the bed again. “What are your terms?”

She crossed her arms and went to stand in front of him. “My terms are simple. I’ll tell you when I’m ready to talk about what happened, and you aren’t to bring it up before that point. And you are to take care of me when and if I get sick…” she paused. “I promise that we will talk about it, though.”

“All right, Molly. I’ll honor those…are you sure that you want me to stay?”

She swallowed. She was absolutely sure that she did…”Yes.”

He took his shoes off. “Can I help with dinner?”

And she smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

He honestly didn’t want to help make dinner, but he wanted to do something. So he offered. 

Molly left and he followed her, thinking that he had failed miserably with his attempt. He had spent the whole night previous in a state…his fever was breaking, his mind was reeling. Why had he done what he had done, why she didn’t trust him…why it hurt him to know that he had hurt her. 

He knew that Molly was his friend. He had known for some time. He never attempted to hide that fact, nor did he deny it. He knew, unequivocally, that he trusted her. Sherlock trusted her, almost more than anyone…

He looked at her as she readied the soup pot, the onions…

Probably more than anyone, really. 

They washed their hands.

He sighed and took a knife to start slicing. “What are we making?”

“Vegetable soup.”

He nodded, and finished the onion. “Stock?”

“In the pantry. It’s not homemade.”

“Really, Molly. Not homemade?” he smirked at her.

“No,” but she was smiling. 

“How are you feeling?” he glanced as he started chopping the carrot.

“Headache…but fine otherwise.”

He swallowed. He didn’t exactly remember what his first symptom was…”Maybe you should lie down a bit. I feel much better and can handle all this.”

She sighed, but looked at him. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he moved over and she backed away. 

She nodded then went to the bedroom. 

He would feel awful if she got sick…though it was extremely likely that she would. They were in close quarters.

He continued to chop up vegetables and thought about Molly. He never really thought about her before. Not really, anyway. She was always just there…and he took her for granted. 

John was not someone he took for granted. John was someone he attempted to prove his friendship to repeatedly. He thought that, given what he had learned from Eurus, it made sense. John was his best friend. He had a history of his friends being in danger…

Perhaps that was why he kept Molly at arms length? Why he treated her poorly. Perhaps he was not really embarrassed by her attentions, but rather he was trying to dismiss them in an effort to keep her safe?

But he hadn’t done that with John, had he? He never attempted to hide his regard. 

Why…why would he do that with Molly’s friendship? 

He slipped some vegetables into the stock and turned it on. 

Perhaps he believed it was cruel to encourage her, when there was no hope of his reciprocating. Perhaps…that made some sense. 

But he did rather…he kept coming around. He would text. His conversations with her became increasingly personal. 

He stopped chopping again. He was very close with Molly. He hadn’t realized just how close. Perhaps she was his best friend, in reality. 

Because she saw him exactly as he was, he never tried to prove anything to her…he would do that with John. Maybe because he knew that she loved him, no matter what. 

He sighed. She loved him. And he had treated her horribly for most of the time he knew her. 

He turned the stove up. 

It was difficult to coalesce these seemingly at odds ideas in his mind. He wanted to believe that he was protecting her, indeed, that was what he had told himself when Moriarty’s plan didn’t include her.

True, he had believed that she wasn’t so important. Not as much as John, certainly. But things had changed where she was concerned. She had been increasing in his esteem, without him noticing. 

Eurus noticed. She saw, without even really knowing either of them terribly well.

Sherlock stirred the soup and then fetched some water for Molly. He went quietly to her bedroom and opened the door.

She was asleep.

He placed the glass on the stand next to her and left.

When she woke he would know if she was infected.

And he sat on her sofa and sighed.

*`*

Sherlock had drifted off, apparently, because he woke and felt a bit more run down. His head was hurting and his muscles ached. 

It was then that he heard it. 

His phone was ringing. He rubbed his eyes and sat up…where did he leave his phone? Sherlock stood and went to the source, finding it in the pocket of his coat. 

John.

“John…is everything ok?”

“Yeah…I just wanted you to know that we’ve all tested negative for the virus.”

“Good. That’s good,” he felt a measure of some relief. 

“You’re at Molly’s?”

“Yes,” he went back to the sofa. 

“How’s that going?”

“Fine. Why?”  
“Well, it’s not like you’ve lived with her before.”

“We aren’t living together now, John.”

“You’re not?” He laughed.

“What are you suggesting?”

"Nothing. I would think it’s obvious.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” He heard him laughing. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. You feeling ok?”

“A bit better, yes.”

“And Molly?”

He paused. “She might be falling ill.”

“Well…that’s…keep me posted.”

“I will. Goodbye, John,” and he hung up.

What did he mean by all that? He and Molly weren’t living together…they were merely staying in the same flat while the virus ran its course. 

Not the same thing at all.

He checked his emails…nothing of consequence. No new cases, at any rate. Then he felt his forehead…  
Fairly cool.

He must be on the mend. 

…and he had a whiff of the soup. He smiled. He was getting better. 

Sherlock went into the kitchen and lifted the lid, taking a sip of the soup. It was quite good…he missed being able to taste. 

He spooned some out for Molly and himself, then went into the bedroom. 

“Molly?” he said softly.

She stirred.

He went over and set the bowls down, then touched her shoulder. “Molly?” he said again.

“Hm?” she said, rolling over. 

She looked very pale. “There’s soup,” he said, then took the back of his hand and felt her forehead. She was very warm. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”

He went to her bathroom and fetched it and some water, then brought it back to her. “Sit up.”

She did, then moaned. “Oh gosh…I feel terrible.”

His heart skipped a beat. He had gotten her sick. “Here. Take these,” and he gave her the medicine. He sat on the chair next to the bed. “Well, the soup is good, at any rate,” he smiled.

“Good,” but she slumped back into the bed after she swallowed the pills. 

“Hm,” he said, then he turned and took the remote from the desk. He clicked it on and turned on Game of Thrones. “Here,” he handed her the soup. 

Molly appeared to struggle as she fixed the pillows. 

His mouth set and then leaned over to help her. “Here…” and he reset the pillows so that Molly was comfortably sitting up. 

“Thanks,” and then she began to cough. 

He sat next to her in the chair. “I’m sorry, Molly. I believe I got you sick.”

“S’okay,” she said. “I knew what I was getting into.”

He smiled meekly at her. “I don’t deserve you.”

She returned his smile. “No. You don’t.”

His smile grew, and he looked away. “I’m staying as long as you need me to.”

Molly nodded. “All right.”

*`*

He sat up with her all night, and though he was sore with illness and still recovering, he wasn’t sorry that he did. She had developed a cough, and he saw how quickly she had begun to deteriorate.

Sherlock was brewing coffee for himself so that he didn’t succumb to the illness, and could reasonably care for Molly. His mind drifted, a sign that he was still ill.

Things, unbidden mostly, began to fill his head. 

Molly, always there for him.  
Aiding him in faking his death.  
Listening to him as he talked about John. About Mrs Hudson. Lestrade.  
The Woman.

He closed his eyes as he recalled how she, Molly, had listened to him speak about Irene Adler, even though he knew she was loath to listen.   
He knew that she must harbor some jealously where the Woman was concerned, and he still told her about it. Told her about how he had gone to Turkey to rescue her. Told her that she was alive because of his interference. 

Why?

Why was he insistent on telling Molly all of those things? What did Eurus know, exactly?

The coffee was ready and he poured a cup.

And he thought of that room…the room where it happened. Where he made Molly say those words. And how awful he felt that he had put her through that…

Because he cared for her. And he hurt her.

“Oh my god,” he said, backing away from the counter. He looked at the door of the bedroom, then took his phone out. 

‘Can you talk’ -send

Sherlock set the phone down, then went and filled a glass of water…then went and opened the door to the bedroom. He went over to Molly and felt her forehead.

She was burning up. “Molly?” he whispered. 

She stirred a bit. “Hm.”

“I need you to drink some water.”

“What?” and she dissolved into a coughing fit. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her up. “Come on, Molly. Let’s drink some water.” She struggled to regain her breath…and he heard his phone ringing. “I need to get that.” He put the glass on the bedside table, then went to the kitchen. “John…”

“Everything ok?”

“Can you come immediately?”

“What?” his voice sounded panicked.

“I need you to check Molly…wear a mask…”

“Sherlock…I can’t. I’ve got Rosie,” he paused. “What are her symptoms?”

“High fever. Uncontrollable cough. Trouble gaining her breath.”

There was another pause. “Call an ambulance.”

“What?” his heart sped up…he ran his hand through his hair.

“Call an ambulance. She may need to be intubated.”

“All right. I’ll have her taken to Bart’s.”

“Let me know what happens…” and he hung up.

Oh god. Oh god…he went to check on Molly as he dialed up emergency services. “Hello? Yes. I have a woman here who is infected with the coronavirus and is having trouble breathing.”

He checked her pulse. 

Slow.

“What? Oh yes…” he gave them her address. “She’s forty. I think…” he paused…”Ah…no. Her lips aren’t blue. Her pulse is slow. Fever is high, I’d say. What? I’m her…her friend. Look, I don’t see how that’s your business. Just hurry, will you?” and he hung up. “Molly? You’re going to hospital. You’re unwell…”

“What?” she breathed.

“I’ll stay with you if you like.”

“Sherlock?” but her eyes closed. 

He swallowed. He took her pulse.   
It barely registered. 

Behaving in the rash manner that befitted him so, he scooped her up and, making certain that she was duly covered with a blanket, left the room with her. 

If the ambulance wasn’t going to come in a hurry, he’d take her himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly had fallen asleep and not really known when she had. She was just so tired, and she needed to close her eyes. 

It was a muddle of dreams that held her captive throughout her slumber. 

And she heard a humming sound coming close. It was odd…she was cold. And she suddenly realized that she wasn’t in her bed. 

And there was something in her mouth. She tried to lift her arm and open her eyes. She moved her head back and forth…

“Molly?”

Her eyes flew open, and were momentarily blinded by the bright light. There was movement, and the lights dimmed. 

“Is that better?”

Her vision adjusted, and she saw Sherlock sitting down next to her. He was wearing protective clothing: a mask, shield, scrubs. And she then saw the plastic barrier between them. She was going to speak, but found that her voice was obstructed. 

“Don’t try to speak, Molly. You’ve been intubated.”

Her eyes went wide. How was he here with her? They would never have allowed it…but then, he was Sherlock, and they had been living together…  
And then she thought about time, and how long had she been there?

“I know that things are strange at the moment…” his voice was muffled. “But I promise you that now that you’re awake, everything is much more promising.”

She must have been asleep a good long while. Her head was pounding and she felt achy all over. The door opened and someone else entered the room. She heard Sherlock speaking to a man. “I have permission to be here.”

“Sir, we really must insist.”

“I don’t care what you insist, I need to stay with this patient.”

There was a scuffle heard, and the door closed. 

“I’m sorry Dr Hooper. Your friend really does not have the proper clearances to be here with you,” she watched as he looked at her chart. “Well, it’s good that you woke, Dr Hooper. We had given you something to sleep because your oxygen levels were so low. But you should have awoken at least a day ago.”

Oh my god…how long had she been here?

“I’ll be by later after the nurses check your vitals and such,” he nodded. “Oh…sorry. I’m Dr McNair. I’ll be attending you,” and he left.

~*~

Out in the hall, Sherlock was fuming. How could they dismiss him after he sat there with her for three days? What, now that she’s awake he’s not allowed in? Preposterous. He went to the nurse’s station to complain, but the hospital had been so overrun with sick people that no one was there. 

Sherlock decided to go outside and have a smoke. It had been ages, and he was fully recovered from Covid. What’s more, he needed one. His nerves had been frayed.

Truly, he had never been so scared as when he carried Molly to hospital. Well, save perhaps the time when John had that bomb strapped to his person. Or when John had nearly been burned alive. People who are close to him really did come dangerously close to death far too often. 

But he remembered how Molly was barely breathing…he was holding her close…the blanket wrapped tightly around her. For eight blocks he carried her, and as he entered the emergency room, he collapsed to the floor screaming that she needed help. 

The sheer desperation he felt at that time…the thought that she was dying in his arms…it was too much. “Please!” he had yelled. “Please help me…my friend is dying and she needs help!”

He closed his eyes as he took a long drag on the cigarette. She had deteriorated so very quickly. It made him believe that she actually would die there, in his arms. 

March was closing in on April, and death was everywhere. He could feel it. April would no doubt be even worse. He sighed. 

“I’m happy to see that you’ve not resorted to your more colorful drugs of choice.”

He rolled his eyes and turned. “Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” he nodded and went over to him. “Feeling better?”

“Of course I am.”

“And how is Dr Hooper?”

He swallowed. “Awake.”

“Well, that’s a marked improvement,” and he took one of the cigarettes from Sherlock’s coat pocket. 

“What are you doing, Mycroft?”

“I should think it’s obvious,” and he lit it, and examined it a bit after he did. “Sometimes I miss them.”

“Why are you checking in on me?”

“Because, brother mine, not only were you ill with a deadly virus, you discovered you had a sister, who is criminally insane, and who murdered your best friend.”

“Thank you for that enthralling recap of my life for the past few weeks,” and he flicked the filter. “But I’m fine.”

“No you’re not, Sherlock. You’ve got no idea how not fine you are,” and he cocked a brow.

“Stop speaking in riddles, will you? I said I was fine. Shouldn’t I know?” he spat.

“I’m afraid not. You had forgotten Redbeard, after all.”

“You mean Victor, don’t you?”

“As you like,” and he smiled.

“But I don’t like, don’t you see?” he said, a bit desperately. “To spend my life living a lie…”

“What lie were you living?”

“Oh for god’s sake, Mycroft. I am…” he turned, fearful that he’d succumb to his overwhelming emotions, his exhaustion…”…a right mess.”

“I’m sorry?”

He let out a long sigh, and shaking his head, turned to face his brother. “I’m trying to sort myself out. It’s been difficult, being ill, then being here with Molly. But that’s what I’m attempting to do, and haven’t had much success.”

“What are you trying to sort out? Eurus?”

“For starters. I can’t trust my mind. I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.” He watched as his brother’s gaze fell, and he felt badly about blaming him. Not the usual Mycroft deserves it tosh. He actually empathized with him. Mycroft did, whatever his reasoning was, believe he was doing the right thing. “Look, I don’t remember her well at all…since you told me about her, only fragments have materialized. But I know that you were doing what you thought was best. She was dangerous, and you were attempting to protect me and our parents.”

His gaze met Sherlock’s and he smiled, as much as he could, given who he was. “Thank you for that, Sherlock. I know that so much of it was a mistake. But I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.”

“Well, no one can expect any more than that,” and he lit another cigarette.

Mycroft stamped his own out. “How are things in there?” he nodded to Bart’s.

“Dreadful. Death everywhere.”

He shook his head. “Downing Street is simply at wits end. They’ve no idea what to do.”

“Well, the more they don’t know, the more people will die.”

“And how are you, keeping the bedside?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “I did that to her. And I didn’t take care of her as I had promised to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t nurse her as she had done for me. I took her to hospital and just sat there, helpless.”

“Well, she deteriorated quickly, Sherlock. You did the right thing.”

“I’m not so sure. And there’s so much where Molly is concerned…” his voice trailed.

“So much what?” he paused. “Well, you told her that you loved her.”

“That I did. Twice, even.”

“You must have meant it, then, I imagine.”

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face. Took another long drag of the cigarette. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“Don’t you know?”

“No. I can’t say that I do.”

“Well, I might surmise then that this is what you are attempting to sort out.”

He didn’t answer. After a fashion he said, “Can you get me clearances to be in there with her? I really ought to be.”

Mycroft looked at him crookedly. “I’ll see what I can do. Get yourself something to eat.”

He watched as Mycroft went into Bart’s, and knew that he’d be sitting with Molly within the hour. He turned and went to the cafe across the street from the hospital, looking to get some coffee. Maybe a biscuit. He went inside to find that the cafe was only offering take away, which was more than fine. He could sit outside…it wasn’t cold at all. The woman gave him his coffee and baked goods. “S’bad, ain’t it?”

“What is?”

“The sickness.”

He nodded. “Keep safe,” and he left. Just before he had rushed Molly to Bart’s he had realized just how much she meant to him…that she was very clearly his closest friend, if not, and he scrunched his face with pain, his best friend. John was very dear, but Molly represented something else to him completely, and he was only just realizing it.

With John, Sherlock always felt inadequate. He felt that though he knew that John loved him, he could lose that affection at any point, and nearly did when Mary died. He felt as though he needed to hold himself to an impossible standard, and that John would stop caring for him if he ever faltered. Molly never gave him that impression. She cared about him, faults and all. It didn’t matter to her if he wasn’t the perfect man. She loved him…he took a sip of the coffee. She loved him. And he hadn’t done anything to deserve her love.

He stood and walked back to Bart’s, and took his phone out. 

She’s awake -SH  
Send.

Oh god…thank god. Is she ok? -JW

Not sure. Going in now to see her. I’ll let you know. -SH  
Send

He went to her room and saw a nurse there. “Mr Holmes…I was told to give you these,” and she handed him gloves, a mask, and a face shield.

Sherlock put them on and and thanked her, then opened the door. “Molly,” he said. 

She was laying there behind the plastic, very pale and wan. She was awake, but still intubated, so she was unable to do much. He looked at her chart…her vitals were improving. Her blood oxygen level was at 88%. That was much better…she had been in the low 80s when he got her here. Everything else seemed to be improving, as far as he could tell. He looked up at her and smiled. “Well, they’ll probably take that out in the morning.”

She mimed writing.

He nodded, and then looked around for a pen and paper, and gave it to her.

“What day is it?” she asked.

“Wednesday. You’ve been here for three days.”

She began writing again. “How are you here?”

“Well, I …I was at your flat, Molly and…”

She shook her head slightly and gestured around the room.

“Ah. Well, I persuaded the nurses to allow me in. And then Mycroft worked his magic,” he smiled, but she couldn’t see. His mouth was hidden…but his smile reached his eyes.

She looked at him crookedly, then wrote again. “Persuaded?”

“I …threw a bit of a fuss,” he shrugged. 

Molly stared at him for a moment. “Tell me.” She wrote.

“Tell you what?”

“Everything that happened to you.” She showed him the paper.

“I don’t understand.”

She was writing…”Before the phone call.”

“You want me to explain…now? When you can’t speak at all?”

She nodded. It would have been difficult to explain her motives, even if she had her voice. But she rather wanted to hear everything that he had to say without the threat of her being able to interrupt. And somehow, with him bringing her here, and staying with her…making certain that she wasn’t alone…somehow that meant more to her than she could say, anyway. Even more than making soup and feeding her ibuprofen. 

He was advocating for her here. And that was something. 

“Well, Molly…I suppose it all starts with me wanting to be a pirate when I grew up.”


End file.
